


Human On My Faithless Arm

by Mad_Maudlin



Series: Lupercalia 'verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Depression, M/M, Telepathy, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock take care of one another, as best they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human On My Faithless Arm

Sherlock hadn't spoken since Tuesday, and John found himself in a holding pattern, circling the flat with cups of tea and words that died somewhere behind his teeth. He'd weathered these sorts of moods before—black moods, Sherlock called them when he wasn't sunk into one. Motivation gave way to irritation, which collapsed into total ataxia; Sherlock lay on the couch, or in his bedroom, staring or dozing or simply keeping preternaturally still. Based on prior experiences, Sherlock would work his way out in another day or two, sluggishly returning to his baseline level of mania, faster if something caught his attention—if anything _could_ hold his attention in a mood like this. It never lasted forever.

Of course, the last time Sherlock had sunk into a depression this deep, John had still been dating Sarah and trying to convince himself that a malformed pack instinct wasn't morphing into something like love. More than ever he wanted to—to say, or do, or _be_ whatever it might take to help coax Sherlock back onto a level bearing. He found himself scanning the newspaper, praying for murder, which was so very wrong he couldn't begin to explain it; every conversational gambit felt forced and fake, and anyway it wasn't like Sherlock didn't know exactly what John was thinking anyway. (Probably; it didn't feel like he was poking about in John's mind, but John couldn't be sure. He had to be leaving traces of his anxiety all over the flat, but as Sherlock rarely even moved he might well have missed those, too.)

John's instincts were to curl up with him and hold him close, as if that could soothe away the fog; but Sherlock was bundled in his dressing gown and slippers and a pair of kid gloves so thin and delicate they fit like a second skin, the faded yellow dye a universal warning. So John made tea, oceanic quantities of tea, and stayed in his room or on the other side of the sitting room, and tried not to worry too loudly. If Sherlock was bothered, of course, he didn't say a word about it.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

The first thing Sherlock said all week was, "That was Lestrade," as John exited the shower. "He seems to think he's got a locked-room murder on his hands. Will you come?"

John's whole body ached from the stress of transforming—he wasn't twenty anymore, and he'd been tense from worrying about Sherlock when he changed. He hadn't slept all night. "Wouldn't miss it," he said firmly, and hurried to his room to get dressed.

The crime scene was a tiny studio flat, aggressively bright colors inside to offset the bland not-quite-white of the corridor. Sherlock breezed past the tape without his usual sniping at the Yarders, but at least he was out and about, engaged in his work. John paused inside the door of the flat and took a deep breath, subtly scenting it out—the busy tromp of the police coming and going, the reek of harsh cleaning fluid, and under it all—he took another deep breath—yes, werewolf. Not the deep laid-in kind of scent that meant _territory,_ but a male's scent, just enough reach through the sleepless fug on his brain and spark something to alertness, like a warning.

The dead girl was laid out next to an overturned coffee table: naked, blood puddled around her head like a halo. "Name," Sherlock said, crouching down for a closer look.

"Tina Scotton," Lestrade said, rubbing his own eyes. "Twenty years old. Reading economics at King's College. Neighbors head a commotion last night, possibly signs of a struggle. Her former roommate, Jennifer Price, said Scotton canceled their usual morning jog because she was feeling ill last night, but when Price came round to check on her this morning she couldn't get hold of her. Used a spare key to let herself in and found this."

"Everything was locked from the inside?" John asked, trying not to stare as Sherlock studied under Tina Scotton's fingernails. He was wearing his gloves, but that didn't mean a strong impression might not catch him by surprise.

Lestrade nodded. "No detectable presence of magic, either, but I thought Sherlock might be able to get a better fix on it if there were."

"Hardly," Sherlock said with a sniff, then stood. "In fact, you needn't have called me in at all. It's obvious."

"Of course it is," Lestrade said patiently. "Give us a hint?"

For some reason, though, Sherlock looked at John with a strange half-a-smile. "I think Dr. Watson may be able to explain it better, actually."

John blinked at him, acutely aware of every eye in the room fixing on him. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me," Sherlock said, and then he folded his arms and looked on with mild interest, as if John were about to perform some kind of card trick.

John swallowed, but now Lestrade was looking at him, eyebrows raised: _go on._ If Sherlock wanted to sit this one out...

He crouched next to Scotton's body, and tried to repeat Sherlock's cursory examination. She was fine-boned and had a dark complexion, which might conceal bruising, but she'd been dead long enough for the blood to begin settling in the lower extremities. The major visible injury was a large head laceration—there was blood smeared on the corner of the coffee table, so no guessing what had caused that. She had abrasions on her arms and legs, though, and when he leaned closer to her face he smelled vomit and...

He gave her a second look, checking her arms first. Sure enough, there were faint, pale scars on her right wrist, small but deep. A sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

"Found something?" Lestrade asked, watching him.

"Maybe," John muttered, and excused himself to slide through the crowded officers into the bathroom. The toilet had been flushed, but there was a lingering smell of vomit there, too, and he found traces of it under the rim when he bent down. He checked inside the tank, first, because it seemed like the right sort of cliché, but when that didn't turn up anything he methodically went through her medicine cabinet. He found the baggie of yellow pills stuffed inside an aspirin bottle, and it was totally irrational of him to hold them at arms' length until he delivered them to Lestrade. He did anyway.

"There's your murderer," he said quietly.

Lestrade studied the pills, scowling. "You think it's some kind of an overdose?"

Anderson—who had been scowling blackly at Sherlock from the kitchenette the entire time—leaned over Lestrade's shoulder to have a look. His eyes widened. "That's Aconisure!"

John nodded. "This must've been her first full moon. I reckon she was bitten by somebody she knew—a boyfriend, classmate, brother--"

"Boyfriend," Sherlock said absently; he was playing with his phone now.

John let this one go. "In any case, they didn't report it and she never registered. He could've got the prescription through the Kennels or his GP, and he gave her the pills to stop her changing so they wouldn't get caught."

Anderson snorted. "And, what, she couldn't bear to keep the secret and bashed her own skull in?"

"The theraputic range of that stuff is incredibly small," John shot back. "The dose has to be calibrated for the patient's body mass, and any competant doctor will start a regimen seven to ten days before a full moon in order to monitor for the side effects. Even the correct dosage can cause dizziness, tachycardia, and tardive dyskinesia; an overdose of this proportion probably caused uncontrolled seizures and auditory hallucinations. She threw up once in the loo, came in here, had a seizure and knocked herself out when she fell; the actual cause of death could've been a heart attack induced by the drug, respiratory arrest, asphyxiation after another round of vomiting—take your pick."

Anderson physically backed away from John, busied himself with something in the tiny kitchen in lieu of any apology. Lestrade put the pills inside and evidence bag with a sigh. "We'll need to track down the boyfriend, get a statement. Any idea where to start looking?"

"Kennels," Sherlock said, still concentrating on his phone. "The accident last month will have spooked him; he'll be cleared and released within an hour, and he'll come directly here to see how his lover fared."

"That conversation's going to be a laugh," Lestrade muttered. He rubbed his eyes. "Thanks for your help, Doctor. Sherlock."

Sherlock flounced out the door without another word.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

"You've used Aconisure," Sherlock said, in the cab back home.

John weighed the benefits of _Sherlock talking_ against _Sherlock talking about this_ and sighed. "I think most werewolves try it out, at one point or another."

"In the hospital, after you were shot." Sherlock wasn't looking at him, and his hands were folded in his lap—back to the black gloves, the ones that didn't announce his talent to the world.

"Actually, they used a holding charm on me at first," John admitted, and he couldn't fight a grimace at the memory—the smothering, electric smell of magic in the air had been almost as disorienting as the pain and fever. "But when I was discharged...yeah. Not a lot of room in transitional housing."

"You stopped taking it, but not because of the side-effects," Sherlock continued, as if this were obvious.

"Well, the dizzy spells didn't exactly help on a bum leg," John pointed out. Sherlock just looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and John was the one who looked away first. "Fine. Yes. I stopped two weeks before I met you."

"Was it effective?"

"Depends on how you define it," John shot back. "I didn't change, which is what it says on the box."

"But...?"

John looked down at his hands, flexed them and watched the left one waver just slightly. "I wasn't bitten, Sherlock, I was born with this. I've never been afraid of it."

Sherlock didn't make a noise, but he did settle back against his seat in a particularly satisfied way.

John thought of the hateful yellow pills that had addled his nerves and muffled his senses. He supposed Sherlock probably understood—there were medications that dampened or supressed psychic ability, too, but John had never known Sherlock to ever bother. Given his sensitivity, and how quickly he resorted to magic when he needed a block, they probably weren't all that effective anyway. Or maybe he didn't care for the side-effects.

There were medications for black, silent moods, too, and John wondered about the side-effects of those.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

When they got home, Sherlock peeled off his gloves along with his coat, another hopeful sign. John was too tired to take much heart, though; his shoulder ached, and his thoughts kept circling round to the dead girl in the flat, the utter waste of a life. He shuffled upstairs and changed into his pajamas, then brushed his teeth—the smell of toothpaste helped block out the memory of Tina Scotton's blood on the carpet.

When he went back into his room, Sherlock was there, pacing. He'd taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, as if to taunt John with inches of bare forearm. "I want to help you," he announced.

"Empty the bin and take the tongues out of the fridge before they go off," John suggested drowsily.

Sherlock made a noise. "I want to _help_ you," he said again, mouth twisting down on one side. "The dead girl's upsetting you. I don't know what to do."

John watched him pace a bit longer, impressed by the confession. "I'll get over it," he finally said. "You don't have to do anything special."

 _"Obviously,"_ Sherlock scoffed, but when he looked up John thought he detected—frustration? Affection? Uncertainty? Shagging the man hadn't made him any easier to read. "I would suggest sex as a distraction, but you're exhausted and I'm still too..."

He took up pacing again, as if that completed the sentence. John sat down on the bed. "You don't have to do anything, Sherlock," he repeated. "I'll feel better when I've had some proper sleep."

"I want you to feel better _now,"_ Sherlock said, as petulantly as any five-year-old, and John couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. Sherlock just cocked his head to the side, uncertain and fragile against the wall. For all he was a reader, feelings were still Sherlock's second language—a dead language, something he could decrypt and lecture about but not use to ask directions. But he was still trying, still making an effort from somewhere in his own dark place, and John felt a rush of tenderness for him that Sherlock had to sense.

They stayed like that for a moment—Sherlock had stopped pacing, and John really should've laid down but couldn't manage it. _Lay down with me, just for a bit,_ he wanted to say, but he couldn't demand that of him. _Promise me you'll eat a proper breakfast today,_ that might work. _I love you..._ but they'd never actually come out and said it before, not in so many words. John assumed Sherlock just knew, and he thought...he hoped...there had to be some reason Sherlock kept coming back to him, was willing to work on this, complicated though it was.

Sherlock suddenly said _"Oh!"_ in that satisfied, shocked voice. He looked at John with a small smile. "Obvious, of course. If you're willing."

"Depends on what it is," John said, knowing Sherlock enough to be wary.

"Nothing. Just." Sherlock leaned against the wall and braced his legs in a wide stance, hands flat on his thighs. "Just close your eyes and keep calm."

Sherlock Holmes telling anyone to keep calm was guaranteed to have the exact opposite result—but John shut his eyes anyway, letting his hands rest loose and open on the bedclothes. For a moment he heard nothing, smelled nothing--

And then he felt it, the vague sensation of pressure inside his head that had become all too familiar since he moved in with Sherlock. John was never going to get used to people mucking about in his mind, not even Sherlock, and he felt his whole body tense automatically. "John," Sherlock said irritably. "Let me do this."

"Do what?" John asked.

He waited for an answer, even if it was only in his head—Sherlock wasn't a proper sender, and John no sort of reader at all, but sometimes they worked something out. What he got, instead, was the distinct sensation of a hand sliding up his thigh. John's eyes flew open, and he blurted, "Sherlock, what--?"

But Sherlock was still all the way across the room, nowhere near John. He'd opened his own trousers and pushed them down partway to his knees, and his hand was sliding up and down his own leg—and John could feel every inch of it, every fine hair tickling his palm, every callus dragging again the tender skin. His face was screwed up in such intense concentration it was almost comical. "Just relax," Sherlock said again, and gently cupped himself with his other hand.

John felt the pressure on his own cock, and on reflex he lifted his hips into it—but of course there was nothing there, just the steady phantom touch of Sherlock's hand. It was mad, it was ridiculous, it was impossible...and Sherlock was doing it anyway. For him.

John took a deep breath and got a good grip on the edge of the bed, spread his own legs wider, mirroring Sherlock's posture as best he could. "Go on, then."

Sherlock moved slowly, though, kneading himself (John) through the front of his pants while continuing the slow, teasing strokes on his thighs and stomach with his other hand. John shut his eyes and tried to keep still, to savor the sensation and not rush things. He had to pull his pants down, eventually, to relieve the pressure on his growing erection, and when his wrist brushed against the head he and Sherlock both gasped.

"Don't," Sherlock said in a breathy voice that went straight to John's cock. "Don't do that, I can't—" but he pulled down the front of his own briefs and started to stroke himself in earnest, and John swallowed down a groan.

It felt—good, of course, good but bizarre. Out of tune, maybe, because Sherlock didn't wank the same way John did, and his cock wasn't quite the same dimensions, was sensitive in slightly different spots. He held himself admirably still, but John couldn't stop a slow roll of his own hips, and the lack of change in the friction was disconcerting. "Could you—" he started to ask, but of course Sherlock read the intention before the words get out, because he sucked the fingers of his free hand into his mouth briefly (heat and wet and softness, oh Christ) and then sank down the wall, spreading his knees wide, to better slide the first finger into himself.

John gasped, body clenching down on nothing as he squirmed in place. It put a delicious stretch on the sore muscles of his arms and legs, and he leaned further back, though still keeping Sherlock in his line of sight. Sherlock was rocking back and forth now, working a second finger in beside the second while continuing a steady rhythm on his cock, face still creased with concentration; his shoulders were the only part of him still braced against the wall, and at some point he'd unbuttoned the front of his shirt, leaving a stripe of skin visible from his throat to his crotch. It made obvious the flush of arousal down his chest, the trembling in his thighs that had nothing to do with his position (though John could feel it just the same, just like the fingers in his arse and the liquid spark low in his belly) and the place where his upper teeth pressed into his lower lip.

 _Gorgeous,_ John thought, and Sherlock actually scowled a little, like John was distracting him. He sped up his strokes, with a vicious little twist around the head, and John groaned out loud again. He couldn't stop himself thrusting into thin air, his untouched cock leaking and impossibly hard...but there was nothing to thrust against, nothing within his control. "Sherlock," he panted, not even sure what he was asking for.

Sherlock made a small growling noise, maybe frustration, and began to stroke even faster, a hand on his cock and a finger on his prostate. He— _they_ —were close, John could feel it, just beginning to sparkle at the edges of his nerves; but Sherlock's jaw was clenched and his breath was rasping through his nose and orgasm seemed unbearably far away.

"Sherlock, please," John groaned, shameless, but his only response was to bite down harder on his lip and shake his head.

To hell with self-restraint. John took himself in hand, and Sherlock's hips immediately stuttered out of synch; he blurted out "No, fuck, John, _fuck—"_ but it only took a few syncopated strokes before John was coming, they were _both_ coming, hard and good over his hand.

For a moment John lay back on his bed, alone in his mind, sated in the aftermath of the singularly weirdest wank he'd ever had.

He sat up when he heard Sherlock stand; Sherlock walked over to the nightstand, a little bow-legged, and began cleaning himself up with a tissue. "Thank you," he said, for some reason, as if he hadn't engineered the whole thing for John's sake, as if he was the one who'd needed the comfort, the reassurance. Hell, maybe he had.

"Hey," John said, but didn't reach out for Sherlock's sticky hand. He paused, not sure if he knew the words for everything he wanted to say. _I love you and I worry for you and you're something necessary in my life now,_ maybe.

Sherlock smiled a bit, and leaned down to drop a whisper of a kiss on John's forehead. "I know," he said. "Now go to sleep."

John had to change into a different set of pajamas, but his whole room smelled of Sherlock now, and when his head hit the pillow he slept and did not dream.


End file.
